


Ghost of Durgesh

by BunnyMoss



Series: The Other Daughter [3]
Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Haunting, Imprisonment, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22141408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BunnyMoss/pseuds/BunnyMoss
Summary: Khilana Min accompanies her father to Durgesh on a small excursion. She's heard the tales about the ghost who lurks the halls. A demon from her father's past, still haunting the mountainside.Post-The Other Daughter Canon
Series: The Other Daughter [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1412311
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Ghost of Durgesh

There is, within Durgesh, a ghost. 

A ghost who prays and broods and curls ever in upon himself. 

Ten years this ghost has wandered the corridors of the caves in the mountainside. Ten years this ghost has lingered like a stain on the stone, nothing more and nothing less. 

Once, he was proud. Once, he was fierce. Once, he fought for his country, on the losing side of history. 

Papa has told her not to go near the ghost, on their seldom trips to visit the prison for one reason or another. Papa is always right, and speaks from experience, and she is _very_ scared of the ghost she’s never seen. How can she, a very discerning and observant young lady, know who not to go near if she cannot and has not ever seen him? But when they enter the winding caves, with Papa's big freckled hand settled firmly on her shoulder, she thinks only of the ghost, and that she must avoid it at all costs. 

In fact she has been given strict orders not to speak to _any_ of the prisoners. This much is easy, given that they don’t ever acknowledge the King or his daughter as they go strolling by, both cloaked in fuchsia and looking lavish against the stony gray all around them. None of the poor souls up here ever look her way. They never whisper her name or try to get her attention, or even do they shrink back in fear from her presence by the bars. She is as much a ghost to them, as they are to her. Two worlds detached by misery and privilege, freedom and eternity in chains. 

Today Papa has said he's taking her further into the prison, where he has to meet with someone special. She hasn't asked who, because it doesn’t rightly matter. She only knows that grandpa brought whoever it is here, for some certain thing. And _a princess must see what ruling requires,_ _dushka_ _,_ mama always tells her, _even when it’s dirty work._ Whatever that means. 

“Now dear, I won’t be more than five minutes. Stay right here, _r_ _ight_ here, away from all the bars, love. _Don't move._ I will be right back. So sorry I had to drag you along with me,” Papa says, and he ruffles her curly hair, “what do you say, you and me and your grandfather Paul take a pit stop to get some of your favorite _jalebi_ from Utkarsh before we go back to the palace, hm?” 

All she can do is nod at that, eyes wide and full of excitement at the thought of having some of that fresh sticky goodness in her paws within the hour. A discerning young lady she may be, but she is also certainly a glutton for sweet treats. And so, obediently, she leans back against the cold stone wall of the prison hallway, and thinks ardently of that sweet, sugary treat she's promised. How good it will be, making her fingers sticky, and watching Papa get upset about how messy his hands are, like he wasn’t ever a child like her who loved to play in the mud and snow. 

Durgesh is quiet. Or, mostly. She can hear Papa’s hard heels clicking back down the hallway, sharp and staccato. She can hear the Himalayan wind howling through the cells further out (the open ones, like Mama threatened to throw Uncle Ajay into once). As she taps her toes on the wet floor and thinks of sweet pastries and the warm afternoon sun she hears one of the prisoners making a _whack, whack, whack_ on the wall. Their hands? Their head? Beating _something_ a little too hard on the stone, anyway. 

And these sounds don’t scare her. Not when she doesn't think about the ghost she has been warned of. 

“Khilana, dear,” she hears Papa's voice echo down the hall, always worrying over her like she might up and disappear on him, “you're still there, right?” 

“I'm here Papa,” she pipes back, “no ghosts out here. I'm safe.” 

“Everything is in order, I'll be back very shortly,” Papa sounds pleased with himself, “yes, _yes_ Paul I'm coming, calm down…” 

This isn’t so bad. Not at all. Not with a mindful of Jalebi and laughter and- 

“ _Khilana."_

_Not Papa._

…not Auntie Yuma either. 

“They bring children to Durgesh, now,” that same voice says, hoarse and soft, probably reserved for times like these when there is an audience afoot. 

Except, _s_ _he_ is the unfortunate audience. She can't respond immediately, not in the slightest. If only because, in that moment, a hand extends itself into her peripheral vision, far off down the hallway to her right. Close enough to see the dirt and wear and abuse it has taken. Far enough that it is no threat. Can't grab her and steal her away. But when she takes a hesitant step towards that steady hand, it retreats. It slides back into the shadows, until only fingers curl around the rusted bars keeping them separated and at a distance. 

“Khilana,” the prisoner says again, just as soft and almost hopeful, “please.” 

“Who are you?” she ekes out, sounding more a scared little child than dignified princess, of which, currently, she is both. 

“Trapped, currently,” is all her acquaintance replies. 

Against her better judgment, and thinking nothing of Papa's firm orders to _stay, don’t move, he'll be right back_ , she takes one long step forward. The fingers retreat entirely into the shadow of the cell she can see more of now. Then it is silent again. Someone lets out a wail, down the hallway, and she hears grandpa laugh joyfully. 

“No, who are you? Are you the ghost of Durgesh?” she barks, and _there's_ the courage Mama gave her. 

“ _Ha, that’s_ what they call me?” 

Outside the wind howls past those open cells, moaning through the whole of Durgesh like an unearthly beast. And all she can hear is the anxious pounding of her heart. 

“I've been here longer than most, girl. And for good reason, so I'm told,” he hisses. 

His voice is smooth, despite how much he seems to be struggling to speak. His words are almost tender. Calculated. _Friendly._

“Come here Khilana,” he demands when she doesn’t immediately step forward. 

And despite every bit of logic telling her _no, bad, stupid_ _Khilana_ _,_ she steps forward. In a few carefully placed paces she’s come to stand more or less in front of the ghost. Or, rather, his cell, for it's too deep and dark here for her to see far enough in. (Or maybe he was never truly there in the first place?) But then that hand returns. Comes to close its bony fingers around the rusty bar like the curl of a spider's legs. His hand has no fingernails, his fingers look almost unreal. 

“I'm here ghost,” she whispers, “I'm not afraid of you.” 

“You shouldn’t be. Grab that candle there, on the table just down there,” he instructs, so calmly. 

“No, I won't.” 

In this she is firm. Perhaps there is a detachment, or a suspension of her disbelief, in knowing she hasn’t rightly _seen_ the ghost of Durgesh. Even with the option ahead of her, there’s still time to turn back. Still time to go back to where Papa said to stand and wait and- 

“Don't move,” the ghost barks, loud and sharp and urgent, and she squeals in surprise, “don’t move little dove, stand still. You have someone over your shoulder. Gopal is friendly. But he likes to _grab._ And scratch… if you stay where you are, he can’t reach you through the bars.” 

As if on cue, the cell door behind her rattles with a resounding crash. She shrieks, louder than she’s meant to, and the ghost in the cell chuckles as though this is funny. She glowers towards him, baring her teeth like Mama does. A fierce bear, even if only a little cub. Back down the hall she hears some footsteps, Papa's nice shoes on the stone. He calls for her, slightly muffled and sounding breathless, and she can’t make out the words he's saying, except that he sounds worried. Something in her compels her to _lie._

“I'm fine Papa, I’m okay!” 

He calls back something much quieter and his footsteps retreat back into the unseen hall, and she breathes a sigh of relief. He can be such a worry wart sometimes. But she knows about her half sister. She knows Papa is scared it will happen again, somehow. They’ve had those talks recently. Now that she's big enough to be more independent. 

“Princess.” 

The word is spat, like bitters on the ghost’s tongue. 

“Pay attention.” 

She can’t help but gawk at this. 

“What do you want from me? Who are you?” she asks again, more insistent this time. 

“Grab the candle, little dove, and you will understand,” he purrs. 

It takes twelve hammering heartbeats before she makes up her mind, and crosses her arms. Behind her, this _Gopal_ coughs, far too close to her for comfort. A shivering chill runs straight up her spine as her arms lock in closer, tighter, and she stumbles a step forward. Further from the other cell, closer to the ghost and his gnarled hand. Its twin joins it around the rusted bars, and she watches his knuckles constrict far too tightly around the metal. His tanned skin turns pale where the thin, scarred flesh pulls taut over bone. 

“You don’t scare me, ghost,” she manages, but there is fear in her voice. 

And _oh_ how quickly he picks up on that, chuckling so low and saccharine sweet, like he enjoys the taste of her fear as much as she savors the thought of those promised jalebi. 

“But Gopal does. Your father does, in his own way,” he says, and she can _hear_ the wretched smirk in his voice. 

She should leave, leave, leave, soon as she sees one of his hands extending through the bars, reaching right for the hem of her winter coat. But her legs wobble, her knees buckle, and all she can do is stumble back a step. Too far forward and the ghost can snatch her. Too far backwards and Gopal will surely wring her neck. And she should _leave, leave, leave_ but she _stays._

_Why_ is she staying? Balanced on such a scary tightrope and all she can do is stand here and freeze. 

And then it strikes her, as she watches the ghost’s hand retreat back to the bars again. 

She _does_ want to see him. 

“Pagan frightens you, little Min, looking so much like your mother,” he says to break the tense silence, “you hate when he yells. You hate when he does bad things to those men in blue, don't you?” 

“What do you know about my Mama?!” she shrieks more than demands, his spidery fingers pressing _just_ the right button to unsettle her. 

“Your _mama_ knew me well, Khilana. We worked together, for a time, when she first came to Kyrat. Before she had you,” he tries to sooth her, even as she feels the tears of fear welling up behind her eyes. 

“ _Gadyuka_ _!”_ Gopal wails behind her, slamming something against the cage, “Gadyuka!” 

In all of a breath, just enough time for her to open her mouth to retort, something moist hits her right across the back of the neck. Cold, soggy, _chunky_ , seeping down into the collar of her coat and down her back . She’s on her knees in seconds, falling practically _into_ the bars that separate her from the ghost in the shadows. Gasping, choking, _sobbing_ with that real, tangible, immature fear. The kind of ragged cry that Mama would gently scold her for at this age, and encourage her to have _courage._ To be _tough_. 

But she cries as the fear takes over, and she can’t even reach up to feel what's hit her as two shockingly warm hands close around her own and drag her forward. Legs kicking, bucking, trying to fight the surprising strength that hauls her up against the bars. Her hands are _i_ _n_ the cell. Are gripped by those two gnarled hands that most certainly belong to a _human_ , she sees now. 

“Papa! _Papa!!”_ she wails, shrill and sharp, and one of those hands claps down hard on her mouth before she can get another breath in. 

And there, _there_ , pressed against the bars, is a face unlike she's ever seen before. He bares what few teeth he has behind misshapen lips, and snarls so fiercely he looks more animal than person, and his fingertips dig into her hand and her face like he’s trying to dig right through her. Trying to squeeze the pulp right out of her and trap her frightened words in her mouth. 

Much as she wants, _needs_ , to squeeze her eyes shut and try to block him out, she can’t look away. Can’t tear her gaze from the scarred and disfigured face she sees. 

She’s dead, she thinks as he tries to pull her ever closer to the bars when she's already all but mashed against them. Papa won’t hear. Papa won’t save her. She's gone and seen the ghost nobody else has seen, and looked right into his hazel eyes, and seen all she needs to see. Stupid girl, stupid Khilana, _stupid_ _stupid_ _-_

Hands. New hands. 

Strong hands, _trembling hands._

These ones don’t find her first, they find the ugly face staring her down. Pale, pale skin, freckled and soft and sweet smelling and- 

_PAPA_

Before she knows what’s going on, the ghost is squealing like a stuck boar. Scrambling back into the darkness of his cell. Sobbing himself, somehow, ragged and terrified and just as shaken as she is. And so suddenly she's wrapped up in Papa's strong arms, crushed to his warm chest. His heart is fluttering like a bird under her ear, a rapid pounding that soothes her when it really shouldn’t. And all she can think to do is to fist her hands tightly in the fabric of his jacket and squeeze as tight as she can. Tighter than the ghost, tighter than her throat feels. Til her hands hurt and her lungs give out and she manages one pathetic little sob into her father’s safe embrace. 

He is shaking, too, just like she is. All of them are scared, as though this altercation has somehow frightened both victim _and_ aggressor. 

“You wretch! You filthy animal! You heathen! You-" 

“ _Shut. Up!”_ Papa roars like a mighty beast, drowning out the ghost and his simpering,“ shut up for _one_ fucking second!” 

“-godless, heartless, murderous bastard, you-“ 

Gravity shifts beneath her yet again, as in her ear she hears Papa murmur something weakly about soggy bread, and her hair. Like a little koala she clings to her father, ignoring how he struggles to get upright with her. She's grown too big for this, and he, too old, and _still_ he lifts her up and clutches her close. 

“Pagan, what-" she hears her grandpa's voice, lifts her face from his shoulder to see him coming round the corner. 

“It's Sabal,” Papa says gravely, and the ghost snarls like something feral. 

“Do you want me to take her?” 

Grandpa's hand comes to settle on her back as Papa turns around to face him, and she's _never_ felt him tense up so fast in his life the moment he does. Her father goes rigid as a board, and his arms clutch her ever tighter, and he ekes out a desperate, pleading, _broken-_

_“No!!”_

Grandpa hisses through his teeth, and Papa begins to shake again, but not from the strain of holding her up. His hands are trembling and his breaths are quick, and now she can think only of his fear, not of the ghost in the cell there. 

“Sorry boss, I-“ 

“ _Don't_ you fucking touch her, Paul,” Papa snaps, and she ducks her face into his shoulder, “you stay here and take care of this mess. I thought you broke him in better than that, De Pleur.” 

The ghost has calmed down, though she still hears him squirming, and when she opens her eyes, he's back at the bars again. All she can think is that this is a terrible decision, as she watches her grandpa stalk past them and towards the ghost. Papa starts to walk away from the scene, shaking like a leaf, and she clings close as she can, just happy to be safe. 

“Alright Bhandari. You know the drill, I’m gonna-" 

“ _Wait,"_ Papa stops in his tracks, just barely out of sight of that terrible cell, that terrible man, “Paul.” 

“Yeah boss?” she hears grandpa say as the ghost snuffles and snorts and tells them all how unafraid he is. 

“Sabal has earned it. Call Ajay.” 

Before the last syllable has left her father's mouth, the ghost cuts out a shrill keen that would put her own to shame. The karmic justice feels _good_ as she listens to him descend into a pleading mess, as Papa takes her far away from that terrible man and his sticky honey words. He shakes as he holds her, the whole way out of the prison and to the helicopter waiting for them. He doesn’t let Gary take her to help her up, he just hauls her right into the chopper still clinging to him. 

And even after she's calmed down, he _still_ frets, poor Papa, and it's her turn to comfort him as she pets his soft hair. She smiles as best as she can, shows him she's still here, still breathing, still his little princess. He lets her take the pocket square from his suit jacket, lets her dab away his tears and moosh his cheeks together until he makes a silly face. And soon enough things are just fine, and whatever horrible, terrible thing they both encountered at Durgesh is far behind then both. 

“Do you still want jalebi, dushka?” Papa asks after awhile, when he's finally stopped crying and the red trees of the North are in sight below them. 

“Yeah Papa,” is all she says, patting his cheek. 

“I love you, Khilana,” his voice still warbles. 

“Love you too, always.” 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please feel free to leave comments and suggestions! Let me know what you think, or what you'd like to see next!
> 
> Huge thanks to Fuzziestpuppy for all the support, beta reading, inspiration, and for being an amazing friend all around.


End file.
